On May 19, 2017, I took delivery of a new 2017 Chevrolet SS showing 9 mostly Australian miles on the odometer. Two months and sixteen States later, the same gauge registered 10,084, which is about 200 hours on the road at an average 50mph. That’s a lot of time to enjoy scenery, sit in traffic, learn the limits of the car in the twisties, or on the more remote stretches, simply let my mind wander a bit.

Paul once wrote about a trip in a 1975 Corolla that changed the direction of his life in a meaningful way. I’m not sure any single vehicle ever had that level of effect on me, but as I related to him recently, there is definitely a ‘zone’ you get in, especially on a long trip. One simply slips away from all temporal cares and enters a transcendental state where thoughts flow back and forth through time and space just as the tides incessantly flow across the shore…

When not thinking about how to solve world hunger, I sometimes meditate on how a particular car wove its way into a certain life event. At last count, there are nearly 50 vehicles I’ve either owned or that have played significant roles in my life. The ones I deeply bonded with were because of the places they carried me or events that occurred in which they played a role. On the recent six-hour drive to the CC Meetup in Dearborn, I drifted off into a reverie, remembering back to college days…

I had recently gotten my ’66 Pontiac Tempest running again with a freshly-rebuilt SBC engine swap. ‘Granny,’ whom I lived while attending Georgia Tech, had helped me install the engine out in her driveway by slowing lowering the hoist as I guided the engine in place. I was now chuckling in remembrance as I exited I-85 onto the rural State roads that led to my high school best friend’s home in South Carolina. I had already had to stop once, though, as the alternator was failing. I managed to find a service station that was just closing up, and the mechanic gave my battery a boost and suggested I replace the alternator as soon as I could. The moon was bright and the roads were clear with little traffic at 11pm, so I turned the headlights off to save what battery I had left. The warm night and gentle rumble of the engine were mesmerizing and I don’t really remember much of the rest of the trip, until it came to a jarring end when I successfully reached Billy’s house and snapped out of the trance.

Rain fell in torrents as my ’71 VW Campmobile and I slowly climbed I-40 in the Great Smoky Mountains on my way home to Charlotte from my new job in Knoxville. I commuted every weekend in the ‘Belle for about four months while we were selling our house, as Beth needed the ‘good car’ to shuttle our two young sons around, then still in car seats. I had rebuilt the engine in the van a few years prior – in the parking lot of the apartment we rented – and having stripped all the camping gear out, it was light and moved along reasonably well for a 25-year-old 50hp VW. Heavy rains seem to put me in the ‘zone’ fairly easily – you are totally engaged with driving, yet part of you is almost a disinterested observer hovering a few feet outside your head. The squawking from the CB radio was the only sound in the van beyond the hiss of rain hitting the uninsulated thin steel panel 6″ from my knees. It suddenly dawned on me that the squawking on the radio was directed at me, as the truckers were warning each other to “watch out for some #@&$* fool in a VW with no taillights,” which snapped me back to reality and a stop at the next exit to repair the fault.

“Closer – I can almost reach it!,” shouted my buddy as I nudged my ’71 Chevrolet Vega to within a foot of a friend’s mid-70s Ford Torino. We were hurtling down I-26 on our way to Spring Break at Myrtle Beach, SC as newly-minted high school graduates, and were trying to make a car-to-car transfer of a bottle of aspirin for one of our gang who had a splitting headache (too much partying the night before?). I had received the Vega as my first car the previous Autumn, and spent Christmas break swapping in a freshly-sleeved and rebuilt engine. It no longer burned a gallon of oil every two weeks, but my best friend Billy’s ’65 Mustang still ran away from me on our sprints home after school, at least until we hit the curvy part of the road. I personally put over 150,000 miles on that car before selling it after about six years, but so many milestones and rites of passages happened in it that it feels like I had it much longer. It was the singular vehicle that expanded my view of the world beyond town and school.

A number of the cars I’ve owned were kept for long periods of time, but only a few ever achieved the point where they became part of me, and I, part of them. Even my ’00 VW New Beetle, which I owned over twelve years and 220,000 miles, never really connected in this deep and meaningful way. I loved the car, had some good memories with it, and still miss it when I see it tootling around town, but as I mainly used it as a DD with few long or meaningful road trips, it simply never got under my skin the way some of my other cars did.

As I put the finishing touches on this post, my Chev SS Commodore SSV now has around 12,500 miles on the odometer, which includes trips to see my new granddaughter (no. 2) and my Dad down South, as well as a 3,500 mile trip to the Grand Canyon with my wife. We’ve already made some good memories with it, and as it’s a car that begs to be driven, I’m finding every opportunity to oblige, just to see where it wants to take me…

41 Comments

The words road trip and Vega always make me smile. One friend was driving anothers 1973 hatchback from LA to Denver in 1974. The Vega was light orange of course and they were stopped for speeding in Utah. 94 in a 55! Taken directly to court and the judge dismissed the cases saying “car won’t go that fast” to the arresting officer.

I bolted a trailer hitch to my 1980 Pinto wagon (2.3L with 89 bhp) so I could pull a trailer loaded with my motorcycles.

One foggy morning I was busted for driving 67 mph on Interstate 5 in rural Bakersfield CA area. The speed limit when towing was 55…but I felt I should have received a medal for getting a sub 100bhp car up to that speed with three motorcycles on the trailer.

Couldn’t agree more. You defied the laws of physics and motion getting a Pinto to pull a trailer that fast! I’ll bet you had tailwind.

Once got stopped driving a rented Yugo by CHP on a downgrade out of Donner Pass. The CHP commented it was the 1st Yugo he ever stopped for speeding. Not sure the CHP bought my explanation (truthful-or so I thought) that I needed to build up speed on the downgrades to avoid being a hazard on the uphill sections. However he did let me go after a suitably stern lecture.

I drove my 1973 Vega from my home in Kentucky to my Air Force duty station in California, in July. Of course the Vega did not have A/C so it was windows down all the way. Driving west the driver’s side of the car is on the south and exposed to the sun. Naturally my left arm started to get terribly sunburned; rather than dig into my clothes for a long sleeved shirt I just wrapped a towel around the exposed skin.

To this day I still enjoy driving and most of the time it doesn’t matter if I’m actually going somewhere or just riding around. After 30+ years of marriage my wife has finally learned that I’m not really ignoring her but instead I am just “in the zone”. Few things are better in life than rolling down the road, listening to some Miles Davis or some Grateful Dead or any music really.

Sounds like a bad case of “Commuter’s Elbow”. I did the same thing when I was young. Insert ’69 longroof 510 in place of Vega and road tripping just to see what’s out there. Crossed Canada heading west, arm out the window most of the way. Totally in the shade on the return. I got used to being laughed at with my one brown arm and partly brown face. No ammount of lying in the sun could fix it. The next year I got smart and headed east for a change and, well, caught the same affliction on the return. Two summers in a row.

Of course the Vega did not have A/C so it was windows down all the way. Driving west the driver’s side of the car is on the south and exposed to the sun. Naturally my left arm started to get terribly sunburned

My friend Billy’s first question when I would arrive at his house was, “Let me see your arm!” (c:

The Vega was light orange of course and they were stopped for speeding in Utah. 94 in a 55!

I got my first speeding ticket in the Vega on the way back from the same Myrtle Beach trip mentioned above, thankfully wasn’t more than 10-15 over. IIRC, I only got one other ticket in the Vega, post Buick V6 swap, for peeling out of work one afternoon right past a cop sitting in the gas station just up the street.

Son went to college in Utah. Returning home to Arkansas for Christmas break one year, he got a speeding ticket. I only found out about when a local Sheriff’s office left a message on the home phone stating that had received his check and were wondering where to send the receipt.

When I asked about the message, he reluctantly fessed up. Naturally I wanted to know how fast he was driving. He told me it was for +20 over. At that speed, I assumed he must have been in a town. I gave the typical fatherly warning about the need to slow down from highway speeds when coming off the freeway.

Then he dropped the bomb, “Dad, I was on the freeway.” It took a minute for it to register with me that the freeway speed limit in Utah is 80 mph.

“So let me get this straight, you were at +20 over in an 80 mph zone – in a Neon with marginal tires in winter?” The reply? “Dad, I would have slowed down if I saw a slippery spot.”

Ahh, the thought process – or lack thereof – of youth.

As a father, I’m such a hypocrite! What made sense to my 20 year old self seems almost terminally stupid when done by a 20 year old son.

Summer of ’74, and I’m doing a run between Erie (where I’m living) and Johnstown to visit my parents for some reason (I did these trips as seldom as possible). Led Zeppelin was playing Three Rivers Stadium that Friday evening, and I was passed by a couple of guys in the 240Z on their way down to the concert.

Can’t remember how it started, but the upshot of the trip was us running side by side on I-79, close enough to each other that our mirrors were almost touching, as we went thru three joints (two of theirs, one of mine) while running about 85mph, passing them back and forth between the cars.

Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” (which was on my cassette deck for part of that time) will always bring back memories of this moment.

For all the concerts I did back in the 70’s, I never got to see Zeppelin live.

I definitely bonded with my 59 Plymouth Fury, even though I only owned it for 6 months. I went to college about an hour and a half drive from home and I made quite a few trips there and back on weekends and vacations. I typically took a 2 lane state highway that was a more direct route than the interstate.

The car had no radio, so bonding was easy. I remember several drives of just me and that car, it’s V8 engine so smoothly reassuring. Just listening to that engine talk to me as I sat in the pale green glow of the dash lights is a memory I have never lost.

I bond far too easily with cars. It’s a blessing because I enjoy whatever I’m driving, but a curse because in hindsight I could have been driving a 5.0 Mustang in the early 90’s but I’d bonded with my 1980 Concord.
I could be driving a _________ right now (fill in the blank yourself) but I’ve bonded with my 2007 zero option Caravan.
🙁

In 1989, when I was 16, my father and I drove on a 3-week, 3,000-mile cross-country trip in my parents’ then-new Mazda 323GTX. It’s a type of trip everyone should make at least once, and even now remains my favorite childhood memory.

In a way, that trip was an unlikely recipe for success: My father doesn’t like to travel, he and I didn’t always get along, the car was tiny and the weather was hot, but I have nothing but fond memories of those 3 weeks.

I later bought the Mazda from my folks and at one time considered keeping it forever, but ultimately sold it to buy an engagement ring. Such is life — but the memories of that car will never fade.

I can recall so many, having commuted 60 miles each way for many years during the early days of my career, but those commuter cars were never particularly inspiring, and a mundane daily trip of any length becomes easily forgettable over time.

My 1982 Dodge Charger 2.2 always comes to mind, as it was such a simple car with no a/c no power steering or brakes, 4-speed and just about nothing else. It was essentially a drivetrain bolted into a poorly decorated metal and glass shell. So simple, but so visceral to drive. I owned that one during my high school and early college days, and it became like a part of me. Many road trips, many firsts, many memorable travels were had in that car.

A second would be a ’93 Saab 9000CSE, purchased used as I was going through a divorce at the time. During my ownership of that car I dissolved a marriage, entered into a new relationship, sold a home, moved into another one, and made many many 5-hour trips back and forth between NY and VT in all kinds of weather, ultimately putting almost 100k more miles on the car in less than 2 years. The endless musings, the sad and happy memories, the time in that seat and the life changes that occurred during that period will forever connect me to that car.

I’ve just entered the 9th month of a rather rocky and uncertain period in my current relationship of 8 years, a time when we’ve been separated by nearly 1000 miles, having never been apart for more than a couple weeks since 2009. We are now making plans to move together to a new city and resume our life together, each of us having grown in our own ways, learned from mistakes and had ample time to ponder all the reasons we’ve always known, but sadly allowed ourselves to forget, that we had gotten it right back in ’09. A lot of lonely driving has taken place for me in my present car, and a lot of deep thought and emotional “processing” has certainly transpired. So yeah, I’m beginning to feel a stronger and stronger bond with this one too, despite having once viewed it as a rather soulless conveyance.

I probably bonded with my Ford Pinto thirty years ago, but I can’t imagine bonding with the modern equivalent of such a car today. But at this age I mostly just want the thing to reliably deliver me to work and not be unpleasant in the process, so my bar is pretty low.

Like you, Ed, I’m on about 50 cars. There are quite a few I’ve really liked, but only a few that it pained me to part with. My 1990 Jetta GL was one of them.

I had owned 5 or 6 Volkswagens previously, including an ’85 Jetta that turned out to be a very good car, but none of them got under my skin like the ’90. I often thought that if I sat in a big empty room and had a car built around me, that this would have been it. It fit me perfectly.

This car was mechanically very robust, but was let down in 3 major areas- under-engineered cooling system, poor engine electronics and sensors, and rapidly corroding exhaust system. For eleven years and almost 300,000 miles I made it my life’s work to keep that car on the road, because when everything was working it was a joy to drive.

For eight years I drove it 80 miles a day and never got below 32 MPG, and I was never conservative with the throttle. It would lull you into a comfort zone, then break your heart again and again. Fuel pumps. Muffler. Head pipe spring couplers. Broken fuel rail harness. Failed plastic coolant sensor connectors. Etc. The clutch broke (not “wore out”- the rivets broke on the pressure plate) at 230K. Parts were always cheap, and I did all the work, so why not? Well, because eventually it wore me out, that’s why not.

One summer morning in 2007 I left for work, got 5 blocks from home, and it just stopped running. I flat towed it home and pushed it in the garage. I bought a new car to replace it, put it on the List of Craig and sold it to the first of about 40 replies to the ad. $400. Next morning it left on a trailer.

There’s one I can relate to. One of my many commuter vessels was an ’89 Jetta Wolfsburg, bought used in ’95 with about 60k on it. It was the car that broke me of my Farhrvergnugen (sp?) stage, which had spanned the first half of the ’90’s. $3500 to buy, and within 18 months I’d put another nearly $3500 into it (I did NOT have the confidence nor knowledge to do my own work at the time). I loved that car, but it was the last VW anyone in my family ever owned. I’d refer to it in hindsight as “A Beautiful Nightmare”.

Nice ride, man! I’m not much for sedans, but when youre talking a V8 rwd with available manual trans, how can you say no to that? Definitely the caliber of car you want to make memories in. And definitely the kind of car you would ‘bond’ with in such a way. These, along with the Camaro, Mopar LX cars and Mustang are as close to old school Americana as youre gonna find these days. In my eyes, its a car done ‘right’.

I had a 2001 Mk 1 Focus 1.6 which was a superb car and really got under my skin, to the extent that I kept it much longer and further than intended. After 130000 miles, I traded it for a Mk 2 (Euro) Focus 1.6l., on the face of it a like of like swap.

On many objective levels. it was better – quieter, more spacious, better ride, almost equal on driving pleasure, much bigger boot, slightly “calmer” interior, even more reliable – but it never quite got in there like the Mk 1 did.

My current Fiesta has – now at 135000 miles and no plans to change yet. Like, I suspect your car, part of this is down to being able to closely tailor the spec to what I wanted.

Ahh this has me yearning for the open road. In the last few years it’s been camping road trips of one week duration and 1500km or less in the daily driver. I bond pretty well even with a daily driver however the three epic road trips of 4000km or more have all been done in a Datsun. Across Canada in my longroof 510 and to Mexico City in a ’75 710. Once you get old it’s hard to just drop everything on a whim and go. No time limits and checking things out on the way.

I have had a few cars that were amusing, as I droned to work. There was only one that really made me smile. Only one that made me want to head down Crosstown Parkway through the canyon and play Nikki Lauda. And, to look at it, most would think it the least likely to leave affectionate memories.

Love it! I had a coworker at my first job out of college who had Le Car, and he delighted in taking us for rides and running any curves or corners flat out. The car leaned like a destroyer going hard-astarboard at flank speed, but never lost grip.

The car leaned like a destroyer going hard-astarboard at flank speed, but never lost grip.

I think it was Road & Track that said in a multi-econobox test that the Renault “corners better on it’s door handles than the others do upright”

I have that Renault and it’s huge sunroof to thank for my persistent interest in a Fiat 500 Cabrio, in spite of the Fiat’s horrid ergonomics. Cabrio production seems to have been suspended in favor of the Compass for the summer, so there have been zero Cabrios near at hand for me to drool over.

I think it was Road & Track that said in a multi-econobox test that the Renault “corners better on it’s door handles than the others do upright”

Funny line, but technically inaccurate as LeCars didn’t even have door handles- they had buttons to unlatch the door, and indentation in the quarter panel to reach behind the door to open it!

Actually loved my red 1982 R5 until an expensive clutch replacement made it time to say goodbye. I was always amazed at how smooth the ride was for such a tiny car. The hatch swallowed an entire dishwasher (in the box!) once. Fun times.

Steve

Posted July 27, 2017 at 6:28 PM

LeCars didn’t even have door handles-

A clever bit of cost savings, I figured. The Fuego didn’t have handles either. One day I was driving to work and passed a coworker’s house just as he came out of the door to start his 2 block walk to the office. I waved to him to hop in….then watched the look on his face as he tried to figure out how to open the door. It only took Ron a moment, but he had “what the heck?” written all over his face. The 4 door R5 did have handles.

loved my red 1982 R5 until an expensive clutch replacement made it time to say goodbye.

On mine it was rust, at only 6 years of age. I saw my old Renault again a couple years later. The bottom 5″ of the fenders behind the rear wheels was completely gone and I don’t know what was holding the front fenders on as they were completely rusted through all the way along beside the hood and all the way down in front of the doors.

I was always amazed at how smooth the ride was for such a tiny car.

I think some off-road racers have figured out the same suspension thing Renault did, The trick is soft springs, great shock control and lots and lots of wheel travel.

Loved the hatch on the R5 as it opened all the way to the bumper. Thought about that a lot as I heaved stuff over the 5″ high fixed back panel above the bumper on my Mazda.

Another thing I though about a lot with both the Mazda and Honda were where to put the flimsy cargo area cover when I folded the seat down for a big load. Never had that problem with the R5 as the cover was a flat sheet of plywood piano hinged to the back of the seat. Flip the seat down and the panel folds flat on top of it.

That’s a lot of miles Ed, glad you are enjoying the car. At least they get decent highway mileage.

I’ve had 2 long-term cars of my own that I put at least 75k miles on, both were definitely good companions and did a few trips 1-3k miles – short by your standards! Also a string of work cars, some satisfying and some irritating.

While attending college in rural South Georgia I would often find myself out on long straight flat country roads. If I didn’t feel like partying that night, or just needed time alone with my thoughts about my latest crush, I would just go driving. I actually had 2 cars with me on campus, because come on, one can not be limited to only car! One was my first truck that I bought with my own money from my dads work. A 1987 F-150 custom. It was a long bed 2wd, with the 5.0 and 4 speed manual. It had AC and… well that was about it. While I have hundreds of memory’s and fond connections with this truck my story is about the other car. I had purchased a 1989 Pontiac Grand Prix GTP as a graduation gift to myself when I finished high school. What a great looking car to my 18 year old eye in 1998. It was that royal blue color with aluminum GTP wheels. I don’t know if they had a name but you would usually see them in gold. I had the windows all tinted 5% and I thought it was an excellent look. Yes, I had to roll down the windows if I ever wanted to reverse at night! Anyway, the 4 cam 3.1 V6 was more often than not, running pretty bad. It was in the shop all the time with timing issues. But on those rare occasions that it was running right, it really felt like something to me. Especially compared to the vehicles I had owned in the past. It was on one such evening that I was out for a drive and decided it was time to let it fly and see how fast I could go. I believe up to that point my max was somewhere around 90 mph. I drove the car for about 3 miles down a stretch of road at a very responsible 65 mph and never passed another car. I pulled off on a gravel road that led to a cotton field, got out and checked the air pressure in all 4 tires, gave the fluids a check, took a leak in the grass, got in and pulled out on the road. I floored the pedal and watched the heads up display speedometer climb. I had both windows down and the sunroof open and the sound of the glass pack mufflers and cold air intake almost sounded as good to me as a V8. 70, 80, 90, 100… Great, I had passed 100mph without incident and just kept on going. At 107 mph it happened… I passed a cop! Where in the world did he come from and why didn’t he have his headlights on!? As I looked in the rear view mirror I watched as his headlights did indeed come on and made a u turn but no blue lights yet. I was way in front of him at this point and had just created a small hill and could no longer see his headlights. Then I did something and didn’t understand why I was doing it, but I just pulled over. Pulled off to the shoulder, turned the car off, turned on my hazards and placed the keys on the roof of the car. Now the blue flashing fog was becoming visible and I took out my drivers license and insurance cars and sat there with them in my shaking hands. He pulled his big cool looking new 98 Crown Vic up behind me and didn’t do what most cops do when you get pulled over, the whole thing where they sit in their car for a few minutes before getting out and approach your car (they say they are running your tag, I think they just like to let you sit there and stew over what’s about to happen!) No, he got right out and walked quite swiftly to my door. It was a county sheriffs deputy, who looked to be in his mid 50’s. He asked me “son, what the hell are you doing?” My response was simple and true. I told him that I was being an 18 year old kid who just needed to do something I would remember forever and have as a story to tell my friends of how fast I got my car up to, and I explained that the evening felt right and I though I was just being told to do it! He then asked me how much I had to drink and I told him the truth, not a drop. Next he took my license and insurance card and ran my information while standing right next to my window. The dispatcher reported that I was not a wanted felon, and had valid insurance coverage. He asked me if I’d take an alcohol breath test and I said sure. I scored a 0.00. He handed me back my license and insurance card, said to wait here outside my car and returned to his cruiser. He emerged a few minutes later with some papers. His words were “Well consider this an early Christmas Present from the Bulloch County Sheriffs Department. This is a warning, and it will give you proof to show your buddy’s that you reached 111 mph.” After that I was so relieved that I don’t remember much of what I said, but I took the Pontiac home and parked it! I still have that warning somewhere folded up in my dresser, and I still enjoy telling that story.

I has a ’59 Imperial as my high school beater. One day while testing the performance of the mighty 413, I spunout on a curve, went into a ditch and back out. Black skid marks on the highway. Dug up turf on the shoulder. Me standing beside an undamaged Imperial staring at it.

Up pulls a Wisconsin State Patrol Ambassador driven by none other than the trooper stationed in our small town.

“Want to tell me what happened here?” I was still too shook up to lie, so I just told the truth. Shaking his head, the trooper told me, “I’m not going to give you a ticket, but I want you to bring your dad out here, show him the marks and tell him what you were doing.”

In a small town, there are no secrets between neighbors. I did what the trooper asked. As my dad was a traveling salesman, he wasn’t back for about 2 weeks after the incident. By then, the turf damage was less visible and the marks had at least faded a little – or so it seemed.

My dad had the same reaction as our neighborhood trooper. “Geez you’re an idiot! Don’t do it again.”

I personally bond with cars slightly differently. For me it’s about feeling one with the car.

I remember driving a late model 3 series at the Nurburgring and being terrified because I saw the scenery rushing past at a high rate of speed yet felt nothing through the steering wheel or seat. I was but a passenger. Totally disconnected.

Driving my S2000, for instance, is an entirely different experience. I feel what the car is doing as if it were wired directly to my brain. It was “love at the first corner”.

At about 12, we moved up in the world, we did. We got a 10 y.o. Holden HG Kingswood. It had – this is true – a heater, a radio, automatic AND disc front brakes. Pure indulgence. It had, and this too is true, seats. Well, no; it had places to sit. Flat, sproingy, and shapeless vinyl places. Well, no, not vinyl, not really. It was a material Holden specified for years for the sitting places, designed so as to resist grip by a clothed sitter, or any seat cover later purchased, and yet also very cunningly arranged to bond to any exposed part of the sitter at any temperature above zero – this in Australia – while causing huge sweaty watermarks through the clothed bits.

One summer holiday, on a day it hit 110 degrees, we drove from Melbourne to Mildura, nominally about a 6 hour trip, and long and featureless to boot. I was not pleased. Stripped down to shorts, squatting knees akimbo wedged on a spring squashed between me, the vinyl and the transmission hump in the back middle sitting place between older siblings (who had luxurious open windows), as my father drove that wind-roaring, wandery gaspy undersprung sled at his customary time-extending 50mph across miles of nothing whatsoever, I stuck to the sides of the siblings (leading to hissing and growling and “get off”-ing every ten minutes) but most of all, me and that vinyl, we BONDED! It bonded to my neck if I rested. It bonded to my legs. It bonded to my back. For relief, I would, to loud sucking noises, periodically pull myself forward by the front bench top (only to have an instant double-voiced “stop pulling on the seat” from the adults residing on it). So bonded was I with our Holden by the time of our arrival, that it took a large relative reaching in to unstick me.

Even though it would seem your vehicle is not specified with this unique material, Mr Stembridge (indeed, I now believe they offer “seats” too), I am glad you have found other ways for you and your Holden to bond.

Chevrolet must have used similar material in my Vega, as much of this brings back not-so-fond memories. The “vinyl” split fairly early in the car’s life, and my Dad bought JC Whitney aftermarket seat covers, which promptly split, too. So, being of an inventive mind, he used ‘hot glue’ to repair the seat covers.

This must have been in Winter, as once the Georgia heat came back around May, the interior of the car would get quite hot enough to remelt the hot glue. Talk about bonding with your car! We still joke about picking blobs of hot glue off our clothes and legs to this day.

Catching up late, but thanks for a great story that off course takes me down memory lane. My first road trip – as a driver, not as a kid stuffed in the back seat or “way back” of an un-air-conditioned wagon – was in my Vega, two weeks in the PNW and Canadian Rockies camping and hiking and drinking cheap Canadian beer with a couple of buddies, in 1977. Yes, that’s correct, three of us in a Vega for almost two weeks; one of them decided in Vancouver that the back seat of the Vega hatchback was no place to be, even for just 1/3 of the time, and took the bus home. My best memories of that trip are not car-related, but following a full-size Mopar sedan through some high-speed sweepers and long straights somewhere in eastern BC or western Alberta, for about an hour at 80-90 mph, was a high point. Overheating in Portland on the way home (blown intake manifold coolant gasket) was the low point; the Vega’s oil consumption went from ok to terrible after that and was the beginning of the end for that car, though I probably drove it another 20K miles. By the way, i probably got about one ticket a year in those days, I was never pulled over in the Veg.